


trying in vain to breathe the fire we were born in

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: girl!Sam-five ways [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-01
Updated: 2009-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every kiss, every touch, every thrust of his hips, Dean is begging her to stay, and he can't tell if she's saying <cite>yes</cite> or <cite>goodbye</cite> when she kisses him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trying in vain to breathe the fire we were born in

**Author's Note:**

> One of many, many ways Dean Winchester slept with his non-existent sister.
> 
> Many, many thanks to angelgazing, fleurdeleo, mousapelli, and snacky for handholding, cheerleading, and looking it over. Title from Springsteen. 13,500 words.

Sam is eighteen that summer--the last summer, Dean will call it later, when he thinks about it. When he tries _not_ to think about it. Eighteen and whip-smart, all long, tanned limbs and cutting remarks and sideways glances from underneath her bangs, orange creamsicle-scented breath and whispered promises they both know are lies.

She sits with her bare feet up on the dashboard, toenails painted bright blue--she never paints her fingernails anymore, only her toes, because between homework and hunting, she does a lot of work with her hands and she gets irritated at having to constantly do touch-ups (and the way he and Dad tease her about it probably doesn't help). Despite the fact that it's the middle of summer, she's got a book resting on her knees, and not some trashy romance or horror novel, either. She's reading Absalom, Absalom, and Dean's not sure what it's about, but given the title, it can't be anything happy.

He taps her ankle gently when he pulls into the driveway, letting her know they've arrived. She looks up, startled, and blinks a few times, like she's not sure what she's seeing, because it's not what she expected.

Dean doesn't think it's so bad, himself. They've lived in worse places, and this one has the advantages of being free and on the beach. It's not even a real house--the main house is up the road, with a pool in the backyard and a balcony skirting the second story, overlooking the sea. This bungalow is a glorified cabana, remodeled when the eldest son and heir wanted a place of his own. The son is long dead and his ancient mother, the owner of the house, thinks he's haunting her. Which is why they're here.

Dad is wrapping up a case in Memphis, has sent them on ahead to do recon, and both Dean and Sam are looking to take advantage of his absence to have a little fun, though Dean is, as always, skeptical of Sam's ability to have fun.

Sam gets out of the car, wincing at the hot gravel underfoot, and holds a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun as she strides past the little shack to the water. When it rushes over her ankles, she laughs in delight.

"Dean," she says, twisting at the waist to wave at him, "come on."

"Gotta unpack the car," he says. "You wanna give me a hand?"

"I'll be there in a minute."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, knowing that she'll show up just as he's carrying the last bag into the house.

It's small; there's a kitchenette to the right, dark green refrigerator and yellow stove tucked up against one wall, small butcher block table against the other. The living room is tiny, three walls paneled with dark wood and one taken up by a sliding glass door that overlooks the beach; there are beige vertical blinds shoved up against one wall, and he supposes they'll keep anyone from looking in, if he can convince Sam to let him shut them. There's a saggy green plaid couch sitting on an ancient green shag rug, and across from it, an old Zenith TV with rabbit ears. Dean's willing to bet it doesn't even have a remote, and he's sure it doesn't get cable. There's no DVD player, not even a VCR. There's one bedroom, with one bed, and one air conditioner set in the small window. Dean sighs, but drops Sam's bag on the bed. He's tired of that fight.

When he goes back out to the car, she's been joined by two boys, and they're laughing together. He feels something tighten in his gut, in his chest. He doesn't want to watch this.

She turns to him and waves. "Dean, come here."

She's smiling wide and bright, though, and she doesn't do it that often anymore, so he walks over, giving the boys a long, assessing look. "What's up, Sammy?"

Sam twines her arm around his waist, leans in close. "This is Will and Marcus. They're staying up at the house with Will's grandmother."

Dean shakes their hands, but wants to get rid of them as quickly as possible. "We've got some unpacking to do, guys."

"We'll see you around," Will says.

"I bet we will," Dean mutters and Sam nudges him with her elbow.

"Tell your grandmother thank you for letting us stay in the house," Sam says, and then she maneuvers him around and walks him back inside before he can say anything else. She looks around the small house and says, "Huh."

"What?" He braces himself for the usual litany of complaints.

She surprises him, though. He should be used to it, but he supposes if he were, it wouldn't be surprising anymore. She laughs and spins around in the small living room, arms flung out and head tipped back, like she used to when they were kids. "It's going to be _awesome_."

He can't help laughing with her.

*

They go into town for dinner. The place is packed with summer tourists, and Dean eyes the tanned bodies of the women appreciatively, barely paying attention to Sam's chatter about the book she's reading until she kicks him under the table.

"You're not even listening to me."

He grins at her. "No, I'm really not."

"Jerk." She throws a French fry at him.

He catches it and eats it, laughing. "Baby."

But he listens to the rest of her ramble, mostly about the town and things she spotted that she wants to do while they're there. He nods and grunts at the appropriate moments. He promises her breakfast at the pancake house and maybe a movie in the afternoon, like she's still ten and can be bought with sweets, and in return, she shoves her brownie sundae into the middle of the table to share with him.

*

The evening slides into the long slow twilight of late summer. Sam sits on the wooden steps at the back of the house that lead from the glass doors to the beach, book in her lap, but she seems more interested in staring at the ocean. She's leaning forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands, when Dean joins her. He pops open two bottles of beer with his ring and taps her shoulder with one of them. She takes it from him with a wide, surprised smile.

They sit for a while in easy silence--the sound of the tide coming in is actually kind of relaxing, Dean thinks--and when Sam leans her head back against his leg, he tangles his fingers in the soft hair curling over the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking her warm skin lightly. She sighs and rubs her cheek against his knee like a contented cat.

The beer is long gone and Sam is half asleep when it's dark enough to start investigating up at the main house. Dean tickles her awake and she shrieks in fake outrage, chasing him back into the house and tackling him onto the couch before he can get away. He rolls them over, pins her down with his greater weight, and tries to ignore the way his hips slot perfectly between her splayed thighs, the way the heat from her body warms his.

Her gaze catches his, and there's something liquid in it, something hot and loose he recognizes but can't name, not when it's _Sam_ looking at him that way. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips--full and pink and chapped--are parted as she gasps for breath. He feels all the air go out of the room--the only oxygen left is in his mouth, waiting to be passed into hers, and his whole body aches with the knowledge, with the need to lean forward and--

He levers himself up off of her easily, acts like he hasn't even noticed the world turn upside down, though his voice is hoarse when he says, "Come on. We've got a ghost to suss out."

*

The old lady, Mrs. Rathbone, greets them with a toothy smile, and thanks them for helping her out. Dean grins and leaves Sam with her to chat about the history of the house and the family, while he takes an EMF meter out of his pocket and starts scanning the house.

There's no EMF, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He can hear Dad's voice talking about the other possible indicators--cold spots, flickering lights, the usual rigamarole. He comes back downstairs to find Sam and Mrs. Rathbone sitting in the kitchen, drinking tall, sweaty glasses of iced tea. Sam gives him a curious look and he shakes his head. He raises an eyebrow and she gives him a half-shrug in response--nothing suspicious on her end, either, then. Great. She pours a glass of iced tea for him, squeezes the lemon and then licks her fingers, her tongue pink against tanned skin, and Dean swallows hard, looks away, and downs the glass in a couple of long gulps.

"Thanks," Sam says, patting the old lady's hand and standing up. "We'll be back in the morning to let you know what we've found."

The old lady puts a hand on Dean's arm when he makes to follow Sam out of the house. "Look after her," she says, nodding her chin in Sam's direction. "She's a special girl."

"I know," Dean says, torn between annoyance--he doesn't need some random old lady to tell him that--and pride. He watches her walk down the path in the darkness, beam of her flashlight playing out in front of her like the yellow brick road, leading her away from him.

"Well?" Sam asks when they're back in the small house. She goes into the bedroom and starts undressing, leaving the door open so she can hear him. He's not sure how he feels about that--she's always been intensely private, but they've never had a lot of boundaries. He likes it better that way, or he thought he did. Now, though, he glances over to see her pulling a tank top down over the smooth skin of her belly, and her legs are long and tanned in the low yellow light of the room, his old green boxers hanging loose from her slim hips.

"Just because we didn't find anything doesn't mean there's nothing there." He shrugs, takes a beer out of the fridge and presses it against his forehead, his throat, enjoying the little shiver brought on by the chill. He pushes open the glass door, hoping for a breeze off the ocean. He turns to find Sam watching him, odd look on her face. "What?"

Sam shakes her head, startled. "Nothing." She shrugs a shoulder, plays with the strap of her tank top, bright white against her tanned skin. "We can check the library tomorrow. Her husband died in the hospital. The son was in an accident, though I think she wasn't telling me everything."

"Probably not."

Sam reaches out her hand, and he gives her the bottle. She takes a long sip, then goes into the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed.

He's stripped down to his boxers when she comes out, and she cocks her head for a minute, looking at him like she's never seen him before.

"You don't have to sleep out here," she says when he's just about had enough of her staring. "The bed's big enough for both of us, and the air conditioner isn't powerful enough to cool down both rooms."

He blinks in surprise, because the last time she'd let him sleep with her, she'd been thirteen and thought she was dying from the pain in her belly. Turned out to be her first period. After that, Dad had suggested that maybe they were both too old to sleep in the same bed. She'd blushed and called him gross, and Dean had laughed, never believing that his skinny little sister would ever grow up into a real girl.

"You sure?"

She smiles. "Yeah, but if you try to hotbox me, you'll be out on the couch in a heartbeat."

"Would I do that?" He tries out his best innocent look, and she laughs.

"You better not."

She climbs into bed, curls up to face the wall. When he's done in the bathroom, he pulls the door shut to keep the room cool, and slides in beside her, pretending it's not the worst idea they've ever had.

At first, he thinks it's going to be okay. Sam's got her back to him, and he rolls onto his side to put his back to her, and since they're not touching, he can pretend they're in separate beds. Her breathing is soft and even, and he relaxes at the familiar sound. He's spent his whole life listening to her sleep, and it lulls him into sleeping, too.

He wakes up more than once, not used to actually sleeping with someone else for long periods of time anymore, especially not someone who's as restless a sleeper as Sam is. She's curled up with her head on his shoulder, tucked under his chin, and Dean lies awake for a little while, matching his breathing to hers.

In the morning, she's got her ass pressed against his groin, and he rolls out of bed as quickly and stealthily as he can, so she doesn't wake up to his morning wood.

He hops into the shower before she stumbles out of bed, jacks off thinking about the last girl he fucked, the centerfold in this month's Penthouse, both at the same time--anyone but Sam.

She's up and in the kitchen when he comes out of the bathroom, eating Cheerios out of the box and reading her book. "This cereal is stale," she says without looking up, "and the milk turned."

He looks in the sink, sees the vestiges of sour milk clinging to the drain. He runs the water for a minute, washing it down, so it doesn't start to stink when the day heats up. There's nothing else in the refrigerator except the three beers left from their six-pack and the moldy ends of an old loaf of bread.

His cell phone rings. "Yeah?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Ran into a little trouble," Dad says, and Dean can hear it in his ragged breathing, the tightness of his voice. "Got a broken collarbone."

"Shit, Dad. What happened?"

Sam looks up, alarmed, and Dean pins a smile on his face, all, nothing's wrong here, Sammy. She pretends to go back to reading her book, but he can see her watching him through her bangs.

"Ended up on the wrong side of a poltergeist. In a stairwell."

"Shit," Dean says again, wincing in sympathy. "You need us to come get you?"

"Nah. Joshua's on the way. I'll hole up with him for a couple of weeks. You take care of Mrs. Rathbone's problem, okay?"

"Yeah, Dad." He lets his relief show in his voice.

"And look out for Sammy."

"Of course, Dad." He thinks it should go without saying at this point, but it never does.

He hangs up and gives Sam a more genuine smile. "He broke his collarbone. He's gonna be laid up for a couple of weeks. Wants us to take care of whatever's bothering Mrs. Rathbone."

She smiles back at him, bright and surprising. "Okay."

His stomach gurgles in hunger and they both laugh. "But first, we need to go shopping."

*

Sam sulks when Dean won't let her push the cart, lower lip stuck out in a pout that makes her look like a little kid, but then she's over it. She hops up on the end of the cart, even though she's long past the age where it's acceptable, and he almost says something, but then she says, "Go faster, Dean," her mouth curving in a wide smile, so he does, putting his back into it.

They take the corner between the bread aisle and the frozen food aisle at high speed and almost run down an older lady whose hair is dyed a red that isn't found in nature. Sam is giggling and gasping, hands white-knuckled around the lip of the cart and head thrown back, hair curling wildly around her ears.

The guy stocking the detergent aisle gives them the stink-eye and says, "I'm afraid that's not allowed, miss," the aren't you a little old for that? clear enough in his voice to make both of them bristle.

Sam shuts down, light going out of her face immediately, the way it does when Dad shoots down one of her ideas, and he grabs her wrist, feels her pulse fluttering beneath thin skin. He gives her a rueful grin and shrug. "It's okay, Sammy."

Her answering smile is small and a little bit sad, and he hates that, hates how often she looks that way, how often the world takes even the little things away from her. He slides his fingers down, entwines them with hers; her palm fits perfectly against his, matched sets of calluses beneath the thin sheen of sweat, and her smile goes wide and light again, her shoulder bumping his comfortably as they wind their way through the rest of the store.

He lets her talk him into buying orange creamsicles and two pints of Cherry Garcia, even though she knows he prefers plain old chocolate and vanilla, and he ignores the way the checkout girl flirts with him, too busy trying to make Sam laugh again.

After they put the groceries away, they head to the library. This is the part of the job where Sam shines. Not that she's bad at the other stuff--she can shoot and fight and chant an exorcism as well as he can--but this is the part she likes. He leaves her with the microfiche and heads to the county clerk's office to get a look at the blueprints of the house.

It takes longer than he expects, and Sam's not where he left her. He ignores the sick clench in his belly, the jangle of nerves that makes him want to tear the library apart with his bare hands, looking for her, and forces himself to search the stacks methodically. Leaving her in a library is like leaving an unsupervised junkie in a room full of smack, only Sam's far less likely to end up in jail. He hears her before he sees her, the soft cadence of her voice familiar even though he can't make out what she's saying.

He rounds the shelves of biographies to see her sitting at a table with Will and Marcus, books piled up in front of her.

"--Tulane," Marcus is saying as Dean edges closer. "My dad and my uncle went there. It's kind of a family tradition now, I guess. What about you?"

Sam's grin lights up the room, brighter than the midday summer sun, and Dean wants to grab her and hide her away from these spoiled douchenozzles who have no idea how special that look is. "I'm going to Stanford in the fall," she says, ducking her head and scratching the back of her neck; Dean can see the flush on her cheeks. "Full ride."

"Dude," Marcus says, giving her a high five.

"Sweet," Will says, and at first, Dean's too busy keeping himself from punching the predatory look off the guy's face to absorb what Sam's actually said. When it finally sinks in, his righteous, protective, and not at all jealous anger curdles into something fearful and hurt.

"Sam."

Her head jerks up at the sound of his voice and she starts to smile before whatever she sees on his face registers and then she looks guarded. "Hey."

Marcus nods but Will gives Dean a nasty look that makes him grin, and not in a friendly way. Sam gets up from her seat, gathering up some papers and slipping them into her spiral-bound notebook. She hooks her pen to the spiral and says, "It was nice seeing you again."

Dean thinks about telling her it's okay, she can stay and hang out with her friends, but the words die in his throat. It's too late, and he wouldn't have meant them, anyway. She slips her hand around his elbow, and he can smell sweat and soap on her skin. He lets her lead him outside into the sunny, humid afternoon and keeps his mouth shut over the things he does want to say about the possibility of her leaving.

He waits until they're back in the car to ask, "Well? What'd you find?"

"Nothing. No mysterious deaths that made the papers, anyway. If there was a cover-up..." She shakes her head. "If Mrs. Rathbone won't tell us, maybe someone else can." She shuffles her papers, shoulders hunching, and Dean hates feeling like he's caused her to make herself small for some reason. "Billie Statham was the gossip columnist for the local weekly paper for years. If anyone knows the dirt in this town, she does."

"You got an address?"

"Sunset Acres Assisted Living Center."

Dean sighs and turns the car to head back to the bungalow. They're going to need to dress up for this one.

*

Dean's grumbling as he ties his tie; even with the air conditioning on high, he can feel the white dress shirt sticking to his back and under his arms. When the bathroom door opens, he turns to complain about it to Sam and stops, surprised.

She's wearing a short green skirt that stops a couple of inches above her knees, with a sleeveless white shirt tucked into it. He can see the outline of her bra beneath it. Her hair is damp and combed as straight as she can get it, and she's dug up some lipstick from somewhere--her lips glisten pink in the afternoon sunlight.

"Here," she says, closing the distance between them while he stands there like a moron. He snaps his mouth shut as she smoothes her hands down over his shirt and tightens the knot on his tie. He catches a whiff of baby powder and hair gel and it shouldn't make him hard, but it does. "Bring the jacket, but I think you can probably leave it in the car."

"Thanks," he says, his voice rough and low. He clears his throat. "New clothes?"

"I sold some of my books," she says. She looks down at her hands, still holding his tie. "And my prom dress."

He doesn't know why that makes his breath hitch. That dress had been the girliest thing Sam had ever owned. He'd bought it for her, and a pair of heels she'd had to practice walking in for days, when she'd asked, telling him some boy he'd never heard of had invited her to the prom as his date. Dad had been away, as usual, and Dean had never been able to resist a pouting Sam, especially when saying yes made her light up like a Christmas tree. He'd slipped a couple of condoms into her sparkly little purse and dropped her off at the kid's house, telling her not to feel pressured into doing anything she didn't want to. He didn't care that he was messing up some other guy's chances of getting laid. This was his little sister, and if the guy hurt her, Dean would bury him so deep he'd never be found.

Then he'd gone home and cleaned his guns.

Sam had strolled in at five a.m. the next morning, sleepy-eyed and smiling, smelling of beer and sex. Dean denied waiting up for her, told her he'd just gotten home himself, and the smile on her face had dimmed for some reason.

Dad showed up while she was in the shower, and they'd been packed up and gone from Fayetteville before noon.

"Oh."

"Wasn't ever gonna wear it again," she mumbles.

"Too bad," he says. "Looked good on you."

She looks up again, grinning. "Thanks." She gives his tie one last pat before she lets go, turns, and walks away. He watches, appreciating the motion of her slim hips and long legs, before he remembers he's not supposed to look at her like that.

"Get a grip," he tells himself, shaking his head and following her out to the car.

*

Billie Statham is a gossipy old bird, but even she can't come up with any violent deaths on the Rathbone property in the last sixty years.

Sam gives him a hopeful look as they drive through town, and when his stomach rumbles, he knows he's lost.

"We can go somewhere nice," she says.

"Why would we want to do that?"

"Because we're dressed up." She slips her feet back into her sandals and says, "There--the steakhouse."

He pulls into the parking lot and follows her into the restaurant. It's nicer than the places they usually go--all dark wood and maroon leather--and he calculates the amount of cash in his wallet versus how long they're going to be in town and whether it's worth it to use a fake credit card.

Once they're seated--in one of those small booths where they have to sit next to each other--and have ordered, Dean loosens his tie and shrugs out of his jacket. Sam laughs, and he can feel it vibrate through her where her arm and hip are pressed against his. He takes a long sip of beer and shifts, resting his arm across the back of the booth. He doesn't mean to start playing with the hair at the nape of her neck--it's just _there_, soft and bright and curling over the collar of her shirt, and he likes the way she shivers, breath hitching softly, when he does it. Likes it a little too much. He shifts again, gulping down the rest of his beer, and hopes the food arrives soon.

He wants to ask about Stanford, wants to make her tell him she was lying to impress those assholes, but he doesn't like that explanation either. Instead he says, "I guess we're heading back to the main house later."

"Why did Dad even send us here?" she asks, tearing her dinner roll into little pieces and leaving them on the plate. "Has anyone actually died?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. Mrs. Rathbone's daughter was friends with Caleb's mother, or something. I don't know exactly, but she knows someone who knows someone, who passed the job on to Dad."

"Huh." Sam takes a sip of her iced tea, runs her fingers through the ring of condensation on the wood table, then presses them to the side of his neck. The cool, wet touch makes him jump and curse.

"What the fuck, Sam?"

She laughs and pulls her hand away, wipes it on the napkin in her lap. "I want to go swimming tonight before we go up to the house."

The food arrives before he can say no, tell her it's a terrible idea, because the ocean is freaking huge, and he can't protect her from it, especially not in the dark. He tucks into his steak and mashed potatoes and hopes she forgets about it.

Of course, he's not that lucky.

When they get back to the bungalow, she sneaks into the bathroom ahead of him, comes out in her cutoffs and a black bikini top he's never seen before. The skin of her belly is pale compared to her arms and legs, and he can see the triangle of moles on her left hip when she bends down to grab her towel. When he makes no move to join her as she heads out the door, she puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.

"Come on, Dean."

He frowns back at her, but grabs his cutoffs from his duffle. He's not letting her go out there alone--she knows that and she's using it against him.

By the time he gets outside, she's knee deep in the water, and she's not wearing shorts anymore--they're draped over the lawn chair with her towel. He's seen tinier bikini bottoms in the Victoria's Secret catalogue and never thought twice about it, seen her in her underwear more than once and never really looked, but he can't stop looking now. The dip of her lower back, the sweet curve of her ass barely covered by the black bikini bottoms, the sleek, toned length of her legs gleaming in the moonlight--it makes his mouth go dry and his dick go hard. He shakes his head and forces himself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths.

"Come on," she repeats, hopping from foot to foot, which tells him enough about the temperature of the water to be prepared.

"You really wanna do this?" he asks, grimacing as the cold water splashes his calves.

"Worried about shrinkage?" she shoots back.

He can see the smirk on her face, so much like the one he usually wears, and he can't say he's worried about the opposite, actually, so he flips her off, last resort of comebacks, and throws himself into the surf, cold sting of the waves a shock against his skin.

She's beside him when he surfaces, wide smile on her face, hair slicked back with water. He splashes her and she splashes back, horsing around in the waves. The waning moon shines bright on the water, and there's a bonfire going on in the distance, too far away to be more than an inviting orange light.

Sam jumps him while he's distracted, her hands on his shoulders and her leg sweeping his out from under him; he swings an arm around and drags her under with him. They come up tangled together, facing each other, her legs wrapped around his hips, his hands cupping her ass. He can feel the gooseflesh on her belly where it's pressed to his, the hard peaks of her nipples against his chest. She shifts her hips, rubbing up against his half-hard dick, and holds his gaze. He can feel how ragged her breathing is in the way her chest heaves against his. He holds her for what seems like forever, waiting to see what she's going to do, but the next wave rolls in and knocks his feet out from under him again, sending them both tumbling under the water. The moment is gone, and if he's as disappointed as he is relieved, he'll take that secret to his grave.

He slogs his way back to shore without turning around; he knows she's two steps behind him the whole way.

*

He shuts himself up in the bathroom to change back into his clothes, and she's dressed when he comes out, jeans and a t-shirt, because they still have work to do and she knows that as well as he does.

He grabs the EMF meter and the duffle full of weapons, and heads out, and she follows.

They spend an hour tramping around the grounds and the outbuildings with no luck.

"Not even a blip," he says.

Sam looks up at the moon. "Maybe it's tied to the phases of the moon?"

Dean shrugs a shoulder. "We can check the dates of the sightings against a lunar chart when we get back." He frowns, listening, and over the steady crash of the waves, he hears something. He holds up a hand and Sam closes her mouth, swallowing whatever it was she was planning to say. They sidle along the side of the garage, flashlights turned off and guns drawn.

The sound becomes clear then, Marcus and Will stumbling up the driveway, laughing. They're not even trying to be quiet, and what Dean can hear of their conversation is slurred and halting.

He grabs Sam's hand and leads her back to the bungalow. She twines her fingers with his, and he doesn't complain, even though her palm is sweaty.

*

Sam's reading and Dean's trying to find something to watch on the five channels the television actually gets when his phone rings.

"You guys take care of Mrs. Rathbone's problem yet?" Dad asks.

"Not yet, Dad. We haven't found any signs of, well, anything." He doesn't want to admit it, but he also doesn't want to outright lie. Dad always seems to know, at least when it comes to hunting. "Sam thinks it might be tied to the phases of the moon, so we're gonna check that out."

Dad grunts. "Not a bad idea. Try the attic and cellar again, too. Could be a cursed object. Never know what you might find in one of those old houses."

"Okay, Dad."

"Let me talk to your sister."

Dean hands the phone off to Sam, who looks surprised. "Hi, Dad." She dogears the page of her book and sits up straight. Dean can hear the low rumble of Dad's voice, but not the words. "Yeah, I know. Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "It's fine, Dad. I'm not the one who goes out to bars every night. Not that this is exactly a party town." She listens again, fingers playing with the hem of her boxers. "Uh huh. Uh huh. You, too." She hands the phone back to Dean.

"Dean, you look out for your sister."

"I always do."

Dad grunts again. "I know you do. Keep her out of trouble, all right?"

"Of course, Dad."

"And call me when you've finished up there."

"Yes, sir." He snaps the phone shut and raises an eyebrow at Sam. "What was that about?"

She gives another eyeroll, this one accompanied by a snort. "I can't let boys distract me from the job."

Dean chokes on a laugh that might just have a slight edge of hysteria to it. He swallows hard, shakes it off. "I got the same speech after that waitress in Oakmont." He lowers his voice to imitate their father. "I know you see getting laid as one of the perks of the job, Dean, but don't let it distract you. We're not here for you to play happy families."

She laughs. "This was more like, make sure they know you've got a shotgun and ain't afraid to use it." She shakes her head. "Where am I going to even meet a guy?"

"That Will kid seems interested," he says before he can stop himself.

She stops laughing and looks at him, surprised. "Seriously?"

He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. "Seemed like it to me."

"Huh." She gets up, smoothes her hands down over her thighs. "He seems like a tool to me."

"Yeah." Dean tries not to let his relief show on his face or in his voice, but he's not sure he succeeds.

"I'm gonna hit the sack now," she says, nodding towards the bedroom. "Do you need me to leave the light on for you?"

He thinks about sitting in the living room for a while, having a beer and watching whatever infomercials are on at this hour, or lying in bed beside her in the air conditioning. He's going to pretend it's the air conditioning that's the draw. "I'll be in, in a minute.

She nods and gives him a half-smile, like she knows what he's thinking. He hopes to hell she doesn't.

*

Dean wakes sometime in the middle of the night, Sam's warm body pressed tight against him, their legs tangled together, and it takes him a minute--during which his hands do a little wandering--to remember who's in bed with him, and why it's wrong. He freezes, his hand on her ass, and opens his eyes to see her watching him. It's hard to read her expression in the darkness, but he sees her bite her lower lip, and then she _shimmies_, the heat of her cunt against his hip, the softness of her tits against his chest.

He can feel her take a short, shallow breath, and then she says, "Dean?"

Dean licks his lips nervously, brain blank of anything remotely useful, and before he can answer, she kisses him, soft warmth of her lips on his, tongue slipping into his mouth to glide against his. The touch sends a shock through him, a jolt of pleasure right to his dick, and he doesn't pull away like he knows he should. She tastes of toothpaste and sleep and breathtaking familiarity that shouldn't be hot but somehow is. She slides on top of him, hips rocking gently, one of her hands cupping his face, the other flat over his heart.

She pulls back, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips shiny with spit. He can feel her chest heaving, feel the rapid rhythm of her heart. He reaches up and fists his hand in her hair, which is stiff and brittle from the salt water, and hauls her in close for another kiss. It's wet and sloppy this time, and she starts making these low stuttering noises that set heat rising under his skin, his whole body attuned to her every gasp and moan.

She slides her mouth down his jaw, licks and sucks at his neck, which makes his hips arch up into hers. She hums in satisfaction, nervous laugh escaping her, and he rolls her over and pins her to the bed, her thighs cradling his hips like they were made for each other. He can't help the way he thrusts against her the first time, but when she says, "Dean," all needy and breathless, he forces himself to stop.

"What the hell, Sam?" It'd probably sound more convincing if he weren't breathing just as raggedly as she is, if she couldn't feel his hard-on pressed up against her cunt, only two thin layers of cotton between them.

She mimics his earlier move, slides a hand through his hair and pulls his face down to hers. "It's not Will I'm interested in, dummy." She kisses him again, soft and gentle, a quick sweep of her tongue over his lower lip before she licks into his mouth.

He doesn't pull away this time.

He presses kisses to her jaw, her throat, her chest, letting the beat of her heart vibrate through him.

"Wait," she says, and he pulls back like he's been burned, like he should have in the first place, but she just pulls her tank top off and drops it on the bed beside them before shimmying out of her underwear and kicking them to the floor. She arches up, an invitation if he's ever seen one, and he dips his head to lick and suck at her tits. She writhes beneath him, making those humming noises again, her hands tight against his scalp before they slide down his shoulders and back to grab his ass. She tugs on his boxers, and he raises himself up enough to let her shove them down over his hips. When her hand curls around his dick, he presses his forehead to her shoulder and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Sam. Sam. Are you sure about this?"

"I know you've got condoms around here somewhere," she answers, thumbing the slit curiously.

"Jesus fuck, Sam."

She grins at him then. "You like that? I wanna know what you like."

He groans again and grabs her wrist, still not sure this isn't some weird, incestuous, Penthouse letter of a dream. "I'm serious, Sam."

"So am I," she answers, but she lets him go. He bites back a whine at the loss of contact. "Do we really have to talk about it?"

That's usually his line, and if it weren't so serious, he'd laugh at her using it on him. Especially since the answer is _yes_. He knows it is. Though the answer is also _no_, not ever, not even think about it, let alone _do_ it, but she's looking at him with wide, dark eyes, and her mouth is slick and swollen from his kisses, and Dean is a lot of things, but able to resist Sam has never been one of them.

He leans in and kisses her again, the clearest way to answer without really answering, and she rocks up against him, slick heat and smooth muscle moving under supple skin.

"Condom," he mutters into the sweaty skin of her throat and she lets him go long enough to stumble to his duffle and pull out a strip of them, fingers clumsy and fumbling in a way they haven't been over sex since he was sixteen. Jesus, he thinks, this is _Sam_. But he can't think about what that means, either, not now, when she's lying on the bed waiting for him, propped up on her elbows so she can watch what he's doing, the way she always does when he's teaching her something.

"Come on," she says, pulling him back down on top of her once he's got the condom rolled on.

She tilts herself up, hooking her legs around his hips while he pushes inside her. He tries to go slow, but she bucks up against him, and there's no resistance as he slides inside. Part of him is glad he's not taking that from her, and part of him is angry she gave it to someone else, probably that douche who took her to the prom. Then she kisses him and he forgets about everything but the way they're moving together, like a finely tuned engine, all heat and sparks and forward motion.

She gasps and sighs and whispers his name as he fucks her, her nails scratching down his back and then clinging to his shoulders, her hips rising to meet his an inevitable display of the laws of physics. He wants it to last forever, breathless with how good it feels to be inside her, around her, the only place in the world he's ever belonged. He reaches down between them to finger her clit and growls low in his chest when she comes, clenching tight around him as he thrusts.

She's still riding out the aftershocks when he comes, deep and hard inside her, pleasure lighting up the dark behind his eyelids, shimmering like fire down his spine. She clings to him, running her hands through his sweaty hair and pressing random kisses to his face. She lets him go long enough to get rid of the condom and then cuddles up against him. She'd always liked to cuddle as a little kid, but had stopped when she'd hit puberty. He'd missed it, but could never say anything--it would have been weird. It's still weird, especially since they're both naked, but he's not going to complain. He drops a kiss on her forehead, and lets himself drift off to sleep, content.

*

Dean wakes up to the sound of running water, and he wonders if Sam's in the bathroom, freaking out. He wonders if _he_ should be in the bathroom freaking out. Morning after etiquette isn't something he's good at, even at the best of times--he's fucked a lot of women, but he rarely spends the night, and this isn't some random hook-up in a town that'll be in the rearview in a few hours. This is Sam. This is _everything_.

He gropes through the sheets to find his boxers and pulls them on, then heads to the bathroom. The door is open and Sam is brushing her teeth, wearing the same tank top and panties she'd worn to bed.

She gives him a wide, foamy grin. "Hi."

He grins back, still awkward, but less tense than he was a minute ago. "Gotta take a piss."

She nods and rinses quickly, pressing up against him on her way out, even though there's easily enough room for her to pass without touching him.

She's at the door when he opens it again, arms snaking around his neck to tilt his head down into her kiss. He walks her back to the bed, only breaking the kiss when she topples backwards onto it, arms reaching up to pull him down against her.

Even though sunlight is filtering in through the blinds, and he can actually see what he's doing, it still feels like a really weird dream, and it's only after Sam tries to roll them over and ends up elbowing him in the chest that that feeling goes away. She laughs, embarrassed, as he's sucking wind, and isn't ready for it when he starts tickling her. They wrestle for a little while, sheets and pillows swept to the floor in their exuberance. She pins him for a few seconds, leans in to kiss him while she's got him immobile, and he uses the diversion to roll them over again, but this time, he doesn't let himself get distracted. He sinks into the heat of her mouth, the soft, warm give of her body beneath him, and she responds eagerly.

They spend most of the day in bed, stopping long enough to eat, though ice cream for breakfast and a bowl of Cheerios for lunch means Dean's stomach is growling at him by the time he wakes up again. From the angle of the sunlight across the sheets, he's pretty sure it's late afternoon. A glance at his watch confirms it. Sam is sprawled out on the bed, fucked out and boneless; she burrows into the nest of pillows when he gets up and leaves her there to sleep.

He takes a long, hot shower and tries not to think about what they're doing--what he's done. He's always been good at avoiding introspection, and he lets the loose, lazy contentment of afterglow outweigh the hollow feeling of wrongness in the pit of his belly. He tells himself it's just hunger, pulls out an old cast iron frying pan from one of the cabinets over the sink, and starts frying up some burgers.

Sam stumbles out of the bedroom a few minutes later, the smell of food clearly calling her. She looks mussed and beautiful and Dean's chest feels tight with how much he loves her, and the knowledge of how badly he's fucked everything up.

She doesn't seem to notice. She smiles and kisses him like it's always been part of her routine, and then sits down at the kitchen table, chin resting on her palm. She drags the newspaper across the table and flips through it, humming under her breath, and he can't help but feel proud that he's the one who's made her happy. He can't remember the last time she seemed really, truly happy. The past few years have been one long drawn-out fight between her and Dad, with him caught in the middle. If she's this mellow after a good fuck--He shakes his head, can't let himself think this is anything that can happen again, especially not once they're back together with Dad. He can't let himself think about what Dad would have to say, how he'd let his shotgun do the talking, and Dean would only be able to agree with him.

She tells him about what she's read in the paper, box scores and celebrity gossip and the state of the world, and he lets her chatter wash over him, grunting whenever she stops long enough to indicate she'd like a response, the same way he has at every meal he can remember since she learned to talk.

After they've cleaned up, he grabs a couple of beers and they sit outside on the back steps. She has her notebook out, and they go over everything they've learned so far about the Rathbone house and family, to see if there's anything they've overlooked.

If, after they're done with that conversation, Sam crawls up into Dean's lap, smelling of sweat and tasting of beer when she kisses him, and they make out until the sky starts to darken, well, Dean's not going to push her away.

*

They've been here four days with no progress, and normally that would make Dean antsy--in the summer, Dad rarely lets them spend even a week in one place--but though Mrs. Rathbone is spooked, nobody's actually been hurt, so he doesn't mind taking his time.

He gets to hang out with Sam, and it's not like they don't hang out all the time anyway, but it's different now, and not just in the obvious ways. He feels like she's _his_ again, to love and hold and keep safe from the world, and for the first time in a long time, she's letting him. Which would normally make him suspicious, but he's trying his best not to think too hard about anything but how Sam looks when he's fucking her, how she tastes when he's eating her out, how she sounds when she comes, how she sighs when she sleeps.

After the attic and the basement turn up clean, they spend most of the nights patrolling the house and the grounds. They sleep in, start the morning with a long, slow fuck in bed, and then a quick, hard one in the shower--Sam's always been a little obsessive about her hobbies, and Dean's kind of startled at being the object of her focus, the center of her undivided attention as she takes inventory of his scars and freckles, relearning familiar territory from new angles. Her forehead creases and she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating and he can see her eyes light up when she discovers some new way to make him gasp or growl or beg, the same look she gets when she figures out what they're hunting or how to balance an equation.

After they're showered and dressed, they go to the library and continue searching through the newspaper archives for some clue about what's haunting Mrs. Rathbone. And even if they can't do anything for Mrs. Rathbone, he should be looking for other hunts in the area. He scans the obituaries, but for once he just lets it go when Sam pulls the newspaper out of his hands and tells him to forget about it. Dean usually needs a break after an hour or two of research, anyway, and Sam lets him drag her out into the town, to play mini-golf or see a movie, or take a walk on the boardwalk.

"New moon tonight," she says wrapping her tongue around a creamsicle as they walked in the afternoon sunshine. She gives him a mischievous glance, and a week ago, he'd have sworn she didn't know what she was doing, but now he knows she knows. He closes his eyes and bites his lip at the memory, which makes her smile. She licks her fingers when she's done, sliding each one into her mouth and then out again with a wet sound that makes him shift uncomfortably and glare at the guys who stop to watch.

There are carts up and down the boardwalk, selling candy and ice cream, t-shirts and knickknacks and jewelry. Even though she's seen it all before, Sam stops to look at the displays of earrings and necklaces and bracelets--silver and turquoise and seed pearls and beads. Dean sees her eyeing the puka shell jewelry, running her hands over the strands of shells, lips pursed in concentration.

"Which one do you like?" she asks, holding up one that's plain white, one that's white and blue, and one that's blue and pink.

"The white one," he says, and she nods.

"I'll take it," she says to the woman behind the counter.

"I got it," Dean says, taking out his wallet and handing over a ten.

Sam gives him a brilliant smile and kisses him, right there in public, and he feels his face heat. These people don't know who they are, don't know why it's wrong, and for a second he wonders what it would be like to live like that all the time, to be able to be together and not have anyone look at them like they're doing something wrong.

He's still thinking about it when she goes down on one knee and fastens the string of shells around her ankle. It looks bright against her tanned skin. "Perfect," she says, still smiling.

"Yeah." He takes her hand and helps her up, right into his arms. He kisses her again, softer and more lingering this time, and when she sighs into his mouth, he decides they need to go back to the bungalow. "Come on," he says, pulling her back towards the car.

"But we haven't gotten to the skeeball yet," she protests.

"Later." When she opens her mouth to argue, he hauls her into his arms and whispers, "I really want to fuck you right now."

She blushes and her mouth opens and closes soundlessly once or twice before she says, "Oh. Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

He feels a small thrill at being able to make her nearly speechless, and spends a few precious moments kissing her again, before she starts leading him away.

They don't make it all the way back to the bungalow; she teases him as he's driving, her hand rubbing over the hard ache of his cock until he's afraid he's going to get them both killed. He pulls over under a tree and they shift and slide, sweaty skin against the hot vinyl, until he's got her shorts shoved down and she's got his jeans unzipped so she can roll the condom on and sink down onto him right there in the front seat of the car.

She rolls her hips and arches her back, and he shoves up her tank top and slides her bra down so he can suck on her hard nipples. She moans and tightens around him, thrusting harder, and he wonders how he ever lived without this--the slick heat of her cunt and the firm weight of her tits and the sweet taste of orange creamsicle on her tongue when he sucks it into his mouth.

"Dean," she gasps, and, "please," and, "yes," and when he asks who she belongs to, she always says, "you," chants it like a prayer.

"Mine," he murmurs into her ear, "Sammy," and she always answers, "Yes," and "yours."

He believes her, gives her the same answers back when she asks, deeper than any vow or promise anyone else could ask of them.

She likes to bite, leaves little bruises down the length of his neck, and he comes hard, unexpectedly, the intense rush of it surprising him, when she bites the ridge of his collarbone hard enough to sting. She's still gasping and thrusting, so he replaces his cock with his fingers, curls them up and in, while his thumb brushes over her clit. He can feel the tension in her thighs, the tremors in her body, tiny at first, and then more noticeable, as her orgasm hits her and she comes apart in his arms.

She slides off him, skin glistening with sweat and saliva, and they sit there for a little while, panting. He gets rid of the condom while she grabs some napkins from the glove compartment, and they take a few minutes to clean up before he pulls back out onto the road.

*

Dad calls when they're having dinner, and sick fear churns in Dean's gut. He takes the call outside, says, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," like the good soldier his father wants him to be, and hopes Dad can't hear the truth in his voice. "We're hoping to see it tonight," he says, and that's a lie, because Dean never wants this hunt to end; he wants to stay here until he and Sam are as old and wrinkled as Mrs. Rathbone. He knows once they're back on the road, things are going to change, and he's not sure he can handle it.

He eats the rest of his dinner, but it tastes like ashes, and sits in his belly like lead.

*

There's no moon and the sky is bright with stars--one of the things Dean likes about this place is that he can see the stars at night without a lot of interference. He hates camping, but he loves sitting outside on the back steps of the bungalow and watching the moon and the stars over the water. It makes him feel small and huge at the same time in a way he's never been able to put into words.

Sam steps outside, dressed for the job in boots and jeans, hair brushed back out of her eyes and duffle slung over her shoulder.

"I'm ready," she says quietly, like she feels it too, and doesn't want to disturb whatever it is that causes the feeling.

"Let's go." He takes her hand, and even with the usual pre-hunt adrenaline starting to flow, he feels something ease in his chest when their fingers twine together.

Mrs. Rathbone gives them a tremulous smile and tells them to be careful, the way she has every night for the week they've been patrolling her property, and then she locks herself up in her bedroom. They salt the doors and the windows, and Dean doesn't ask where Will the douchebag grandson is and why he isn't around, looking after his grandmother. He doesn't want to remind Sam that she has other options. He's still trying to forget what she told Will and Marcus in the library. He hasn't worked up the nerve to ask if it's true. Mostly because he's pretty sure it is, and that there's no way in hell Dad's going to let her go, and Dean's selfish enough to want to keep the good thing he's got going, instead of ruining it by upsetting her before he has to.

When they're done laying down the salt and scanning the house, they start their nightly patrol of the grounds. They circle the house and the garage first, then move outward in widening circles. They stay together because even though he knows Sam can handle herself in a fight, they don't know what they're up against, and it's smarter to face it together, whatever it is.

They move together silently, the way Dad trained them to, and Dean thinks this is the way it should be, the way he wants it to be, for the rest of their lives--him and Sam against the things in the dark.

They've been patrolling (more like wandering) the grounds for a few hours, and the lack of anything exciting has lulled Dean into a daze, so when he sees the weird glow reflecting from a window on the second floor of the house, it doesn't register at first as what he's been looking for. He stops, puzzled, and Sam whispers, "Dean? What is it?"

He shakes his head. "Don't know, but do you see that?"

She takes the binoculars out of her bag and after she's taken a look, she says, "You've gotta be kidding me."

"What?" He holds his hand out for the binoculars. "Okay, I knew that guy was an asshole, but seriously? I was not expecting him to be this big an asshole." It's Will Rathbone, dressed all in black, except for his face and hands, which are covered in phosphorescent makeup. He's standing on the balcony outside his grandmother's room, rattling the glass door. Dean jogs over and yells, "Hey, did you forget your keys or something?"

Will jumps away from the door, surprised, and Dean points the shotgun at him. "Sam, go get Mrs. Rathbone."

The old lady comes outside wrapped in a fuzzy blue bathrobe, even though it's still, like, eighty degrees despite in the darkness, and Sam says, "Is that what you've been seeing?" She points up at Will, who's still lounging on the balcony, arms crossed over his chest like he hasn't just been caught impersonating a spook.

"Will?" Mrs. Rathbone says, her voice quavering with fear and disappointment. Sam keeps a hand on her elbow, and Dean keeps his shotgun trained on Will, just in case.

"Hi, Grandma," he says. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing up here."

"No," Dean says before the old lady can answer, "I've got a pretty good idea, actually." He gestures with the shotgun for emphasis. "Why don't you come on down and we can talk about it?"

*

Mrs. Rathbone declines to press charges--it's not actually breaking and entering since Will lives in the house--but she does ask him to pack up and leave. Her eyes are bright and Sam is ready with the tissues in case she breaks down and starts crying, but aside from that and a little bit of a chin wobble, there's no sign how much this hurts her. Dean is surprised to feel a measure of respect for her.

"He'll have the house soon enough," she says. "I can't believe he was trying to drive me to an early grave to get it." She shakes her head and takes one of the tissues Sam's offering, dabs at the corners of her eyes with it. "As if I wouldn't have signed it--and everything in it--over to him if he'd asked."

She offers them tea, but it's already too awkward for Dean's liking so he says, "We're just gonna head out."

Sam glares at him over the old lady's head, then pins a soft smile back on as she pats Mrs. Rothbone's arm. The smile even looks real. "If you need anything...."

Mrs. Rathbone blows her nose and shakes her head. "I'll be fine. You two should go, get some rest." She takes Sam's hand and says, "Feel free to stay until the end of summer."

Dean knows he should say they're leaving in the morning--he even opens his mouth to tell her so, but Sam beats him to the punch. "Thank you," she says, squeezing Mrs. Rathbone's hand. "We really appreciate it."

She waves them off, and something about the way she's sitting there, staring off into the distance, damp tissue still clutched in one hand, reminds him of Dad on the long nights of early November. A chill shivers down his spine, and he looks away, leaves her to grieve in private.

He waits until they're outside to sling an arm around Sam's shoulders; he pulls her in close so he can breathe in the scent of her hair, press a kiss to her temple, grateful for her warmth even in the sticky summer heat. She leans into him and sighs, letting him steer her back to the bungalow.

*

Sam goes into the bathroom to shower, and Dean joins her there, fucks her slow and hard against the white tile, warm water sluicing over their bodies as they move together. With every thrust, Dean silently begs her to stay with him. And in every hitched breath and half-muttered curse she gives him, he hears her promise not to leave. She comes with her face buried in the crook of his neck, her mouth sucking a bruise onto his throat that will linger for days.

He waits until she's asleep to grab his phone and call Dad about the results of the job. He goes outside,   
curls his toes in the cool sand as he explains that there wasn't really a hunt at all, at least, not in the usual sense.

Dad snorts in disgust, but he doesn't give them a new set of coordinates or instructions, which Dean takes as tacit approval to stay put for a few days. Dean doesn't say thanks, but he feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. He strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed beside Sam, who rolls over into his arms, tucking herself against him with a soft, sleepy mumble, and he falls asleep with her wet hair tickling his nose, the scent of their shampoo sweetening the air.

*

After a day of sun, sand, and swimming, Sam sprawls out on the bed with her book, pillow tucked under her belly and bare feet in air, kicking slowly back and forth, girlish in a way she usually isn't.

Dean comes out of the bathroom and sneaks up on her, grabs her left ankle, the one still sporting the bracelet he'd bought, and blows a raspberry against her instep, right on the Texas-shaped birthmark she's got there. He'd spent a lot of time scrubbing at it when she was a baby, before Mom had explained it was a birthmark, not dirt to be scrubbed away. She squeals and kicks out, dropping her book to the floor with a thump. They roll around tickling each other until they're both laughing so hard they're gasping for breath. He pins her, hands above her head and hips cradled between his knees, and she smiles up at him, wide and bright and clear. He studies her carefully, the happy glow making her familiar features seem foreign. Or maybe it's just the tan.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she says, trying to buck him off.

"Kinky, Sammy."

She snorts. "Whatever. I'm trying to read here."

He lets her up and she rolls over, grabs her book from where it's fallen, muttering about losing her place. Dean waits for her to find the right page and then flops onto the bed next to her, wrapping himself around her. He falls asleep with his head on the small of her back, wakes to her mouth on his cock, shadows lengthening across the room.

He pulls her off before he comes, drags her up his body so he can lick the taste of himself out of her mouth. She grabs a condom from the night table and fumbles with the wrapper, so giving him the opportunity to flip her onto her belly, pull her panties down, and nudge her legs apart with his knees. She lifts her ass without having to be asked, and he slaps it lightly, making her gasp even before he slides inside her, the slick heat of her cunt gripping him tight. He kneels up, brings her with him, and she grabs the headboard for leverage, fucks back against him, tits bouncing with the effort. He slides a hand up to squeeze one of them, his other hand slipping down to play with her clit.

She arches and moans his name, turning her head so he can capture her mouth in a hard, sloppy kiss. He licks down the side of her throat, and she reaches back, grabs the short hair at the base of his neck, nails digging into his skin, her hips moving faster now, harder, her cunt tightening around him as he fucks into her. She tips her head back and bites her lip, and he can feel her heart racing, her chest heaving under his hand.

"Dean, Dean, please."

"I gotcha, baby. It's all right. Gonna be so good, Sammy. Best you ever had." He's not even sure what he's saying; he only knows what he means. He hopes she does, too.

She gives a little huff of laughter at that, and he nuzzles her neck, breathing her in. He wants to make this last, wants to slow it down and remember every second of it, but she's already clenching around him, shuddering in his arms. He loses the rhythm, his own orgasm roaring through him like a freight train, and when he's done, they collapse onto the bed, which squeaks in protest, in a sweaty heap.

"I'm gonna sleep for a month," she mumbles, rubbing her cheek against the pillow. He laughs, pleased, and after he gets rid of the condom, settles down next to her.

Dinner can wait.

*

The week slides by in a haze of sunshine and sex. Sam drags him out to see whatever sights are available in the small, seaside town, and when those are exhausted, they drive to the larger ones in the vicinity. He finds a bar with a pool table and they play together, win enough money to have another steak dinner before they leave, but not so much as to make the locals suspicious. She sways to the music, puts a little shimmy in her walk after a drink or two, but she doesn't dance, not in public, and he's selfishly glad he's the only one who gets to see her bouncing around like a dork to Def Leppard or Bon Jovi.

The day it rains, they play cards and then go to the movies. Dean wants to see the Planet of the Apes remake, though he's pretty sure it's going to suck, and Sam wants to see Blow, because it has Johnny Depp in it, which is, Dean admits, a compelling argument, but in the end they see Shrek for a second time. Since they've seen it already, they spend most of the movie throwing popcorn at each other and making out.

The skies have cleared by the time the movie's over, and Sam smiles. "This means the fireworks tonight won't be cancelled."

"I'll show you fireworks." He kisses her and she laughs into his mouth.

"Dork." She shoves him lightly. "We can go to the steakhouse for dinner first."

"Whatever." He doesn't even bother arguing; they both know they don't have a lot of time left here, and they both know he's going to give in.

She wears her skirt and the sleeveless white blouse, and makes him wear a pair of dress pants and a button-down shirt. He grumbles, because she expects it, but he doesn't mind so much, as long as he doesn't have to wear a tie.

She puts on lip gloss that tastes like candy and laughs at the look on his face after he kisses her and can't get the stickiness off his lips. He complains loudly, but secretly, he doesn't mind tasting her all night.

*

Sam is playing with her fork, poking at the plate of mostly-eaten cheesecake between them, when she says, "I got into Stanford." She looks down at the plate instead of at him.

"I heard you tell that Marcus kid," he says, carefully not mentioning Will Rathbone. "That's great, Sam."

"Orientation starts August 31st."

Dean takes a long sip of his lukewarm coffee and wishes he'd ordered another beer. "You know Dad's not going to let you go."

She sighs. "I know."

"Sam?"

"I'm going anyway."

"Sammy--"

She finally meets his gaze. "Dean, please. I've worked really hard for this. You could at least pretend to be happy for me."

He forces a smile. "I'm happy you got in, Sam, but you can't go."

She drops the fork onto the plate with a clatter, and tosses her napkin on the table. "You don't get to tell me that." She stands up and he grabs her wrist, but she jerks her hand out of his grasp and rushes out of the restaurant. The waiter gives him a sympathetic look as he takes the check, and Dean pushes his way out of the cool dimness of the steakhouse into the humid evening air.

Sam is leaning against the car, her face set in a pout, arms crossed over her chest.

"Come on, Sammy, don't be mad."

"Don't you want me to be happy?"

"That's not fair. Of course, I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe."

"And running around hunting is _safe_?" She laughs, the sound sharp and bitter, and he can see the brightness of tears in her eyes.

"At least Dad and I can protect you if you're with us." He leans against the car next to her, puts an arm around her shoulders.

"Maybe you're what I need protection from."

He jerks away from her like he's been burned. "Maybe you're right."

She looks at him, horrified. "Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Get in the car, Sam." His voice is hard.

She must really be sorry, because she gets in without arguing. He drops her off at the bungalow and takes off before she even realizes he hasn't gotten out of the car.

He passes the big house and sees Mrs. Rathbone sitting on her porch by herself in the twilight, rocking slowly in her rocking chair, and fights down the nauseated empathy he feels.

He heads out of town, knowing what he needs, and where to find it. There's a bar a few exits down the highway, the kind where nobody wants to know your name. He stops and has a shot of Jack and a couple of beers. He looks around at the girls leaning against the bar, the girls playing darts in the back, the girls serving drinks. He thinks if he made the effort, he'd have a shot with at least three-quarters of them. Two weeks ago, he would have. He would have walked in, scoped the place out, and had his top three prospects picked out before he sat down. Now, he licks his lips, and even after dinner, dessert, and drinks, he pretends he can still taste Sam's candy-flavored lip gloss.

He tosses some money down at the bar, gives the bartender a tight smile, and heads back to Sam.

*

When Dean gets back, Sam's sitting on the steps, face tipped back to watch the fireworks exploding over the water.

"Hey," she says, standing up. Her arms are crossed over her chest again, her hands rubbing up and down over her biceps like she's cold.

He doesn't say anything, just wraps his hands around her shoulders and pulls her close. He licks gently at her lips, and she opens her mouth, lets him inside, her hands coming up to cup his face. He shifts his hands, cups her ass, and she wraps her long legs around him, lets him carry her into the house. He turns when he gets to the bedroom, sits on the bed so she can be on top, lets her call the shots this time.

She undresses him quickly, her fingers shaking just enough to be noticeable, to make him feel worse than he already does. He pretends the salt he tastes on her cheeks is only sweat and sea spray, and she doesn't call him on ditching her or complain that he smells like cigarettes and tastes like a brewery.

With every kiss, every touch, every thrust of his hips, he's begging her to stay, and he can't tell if she's saying yes or goodbye when she kisses him back.

She moves over him like a wave and he holds her when she breaks, his name on her lips before he swallows it down with his kisses.

He wraps his arms around her when she falls asleep, and lies awake listening to her breathe. The rain comes back in the middle of the night, and the sound of it drumming on the roof finally lulls him to sleep.

*

"Do we have to get Cheerios again?" Sam says, frowning down at her grocery list. "Can't we get corn flakes instead? And some bananas?"

Dean's answer is cut off by Dad's truck pulling into the driveway behind them. "Hey, kids," he says.

"Hey, Dad."

Sam follows Dean to the driver's side door of the truck. "Should you be driving?" she asks.

"I'm fine, Sammy." His smile is tight--Dean can see the pain in the lines of his face--but genuine.

Sam looks skeptical, but gives him a tentative hug. He pulls back to look her over, and Dean's ridiculously grateful he didn't give her any visible hickeys. He has to swallow hard to tamp down the bile rising in the back of his throat, and he can feel the tips of his ears burning, but hopefully the sunburn will hide that.

"You two have a nice vacation?"

"Yeah, Dad. How are you feeling?" Dean asks, mouth on autopilot, trying not to look guilty.

"I said I'm fine. We've got a job up in Bangor. I think it might be a nixie. So pack it up and let's get on the road. We're burning daylight."

"I'm not going," Sam says. "I have to be in Palo Alto by the 31st."

Dad cocks his head like he can't believe what he's just heard. "What's in Palo Alto?"

"Stanford." Sam smiles at him, her fingers curling around Dean's wrist, and Dean can feel how she's shaking, even though she's totally going through with this like a crazy person. "I got a full scholarship, and I'm going."

"No, you're not," Dad says in the tone he uses when he's done talking and he expects his kids to obey.

"I'm eighteen, and you can't tell me what to do anymore." She stares him down, chin lifted in defiance. Her nails dig into the skin of Dean's wrist, and he grits his teeth against the pain.

"Samantha--"

"I've already accepted," she continues, raising her voice over his. "If you and Dean won't drive me, I have enough money to buy a bus ticket."

"Stop being childish, Sam. We don't have time for your nonsense. Now pack up your things and let's go."

Sam drops Dean's wrist and storms into the bungalow, slamming the screen door behind her.

"Maybe she could," Dean says, but Dad cuts him off.

"No, Dean. You know she can't go. It's not safe."

"No, sir." Dean slumps, knowing there's nothing he can do to fix this.

He goes inside to pack his own stuff up, trailing in the wake of Hurricane Sam as she shoves her things into her duffle, muttering angrily under breath. He thinks she might be crying, but he knows better than to point it out--she'd probably deck him if he did.

They're both packed up in about fifteen minutes, a lifetime of having to be ready to leave at a moment's notice making it routine.

Dean slings his bag over his shoulder and meets Sam at the door.

"Sammy?"

"I'm not going to Bangor, Dean."

He wants to kiss her, but he can't, not with Dad standing on the other side of the door, waiting impatiently. He wants to yell at her, but he knows that'll just make her angrier. Instead, he says, "I know. I'll take you to the bus station."

"Thank you." She leans up, presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and whispers, "I've already called a cab." Then she's out the door, jaw set mulishly as she walks up to where Dad's waiting in his truck. "I'm going to Stanford," she tells him. "With your blessing or without it."

"You're right," Dad says finally, his chin jutting out in the same stubborn way, and nobody would doubt he and Sam are father and daughter to look at them glaring at each other. "I can't stop you. But your family needs you. If you go, if you walk out on us now, don't come back."

Sam goes pale at that; she swallows hard, and for a long moment, Dean thinks that might change her mind, but she's always hated being backed into a corner, and Dad should know that by now.

Her voice is rough when she says, "Fine. Goodbye, Dad." She shoulders her bag and walks to the end of the gravel driveway, just as a cab pulls up. She gets in without looking back, and drives out of their lives.

Dean stands there watching until the cab disappears. He doesn't look at his father, and he doesn't trust himself to speak. He feels numb, hollow inside.

"Dean." The break in Dad's voice makes Dean finally turn to face him. "Come on, Dean. We should go."

Dean nods, but he can't seem to move, can't believe Sam's actually left him. He stands there for a few minutes, waiting for her to come back in a whirlwind of laughing apologies. He can picture it in his head, how she'll fling herself into his arms and tell him to stop being a jerk and tell him she's sorry without ever saying the words.

He knows it'll never happen, but he can't stop hoping it will.

The tight grip of Dad's hand on his shoulder startles him out of the fantasy, and he's finally able to move. He puts his duffle in the trunk of his car, and then heads back into the house to make sure they haven't left anything behind. He goes into the bedroom one last time, closes his eyes against the vivid memories of him and Sam in the bed. He can still smell her shampoo in the air. On the bedside table, he finds Sam's copy of Absalom, Absalom, the shape of the book distorted by the puka shell anklet marking page eighty-five. He turns to walk away without it, but can't make himself. He grabs it, tucks it under his arm, and lets the screen door bang shut behind him on the way out.

He gets into his car, shoves the book under the front seat, and follows Dad's truck down the road and out of town. Like Sam, he doesn't look back.

end


End file.
